She was a flourishing artist
with dried paint
under her fingernails.
She wanted to show
the good in the world
on a canvas,
But everyone only saw
the half finished outlines
of the mountains and valleys.
They pulled and pushed her
towards the edge.
Pressing her between anxiety,
and desperately wanting
to please them,
like she was a dried flower
that they could preserve,
an everlasting.
When all she wanted
was a shot at showing the good
in the time you're given.
YOU ARE READING
Everything Inbetween
PoetryPoetry written by me. Featuring my experiences, some bad metaphors, and everything in-between. Mostly free-verse. Ongoing.
